


The Magpie & The Viper

by PricklyPear_L



Series: Dual Protagonists [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Anxiety, Bad Templars (Dragon Age), Blindness, Blood Loss, Blood Mages, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Circles Are Bad, City Elf Culture and Customs, Critical of Religion/The Church (Chantry), Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, Poor Life Choices, Rite of Tranquility, Spirits, Templars (Dragon Age), The Maker Is Dead, Tranquil Mages, We Don't Like Templars, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PricklyPear_L/pseuds/PricklyPear_L
Summary: Feagh Surana has never cared about anything except his safety and the safety of his family. In the Circle, safety is easy—a simple exchange of favors can go a long way, after all. It's not paradise, but it is life regardless. Of course, it all falls apart when his brother Kass insists they help Jowan, and get pulled into a failed escape attempt. The Grey Wardens serve as an... unexpected, but welcome change in his life. The only problem is that they've been introduced to that chance in the middle of a Blight, and suddenly must end it by themselves.





	1. Humble Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, LapisLee here! This is a project I've been working on, on-and-off, for a while, so I finally decided to start posting it. Updates will be very irregular because I'm heading off to college, but feel free to comment with questions & comments, and I'll be sure to answer as much as I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two main characters in this story are Feagh Surana & Kass Amell. Feagh's name is pronounced "fay", as in "Feagh rhymes with may/day/say".

Feagh Surana hated waiting; he hated it more than just about anything. And the only thing he despised more than waiting for something regarding himself, was waiting for news concerning his sweet brother Kass. And yet, here he was, sitting on his cot, waiting for Kass to return from his Harrowing. Everything within a ten foot radius of him had been severely disheveled and then promptly re-sheveled to avoid Templar attention. 

“Calm yourself, friend,” Jowan said in his ear, “Kass’ll be perfectly alright—and so will you—you two are the best apprentices in the Circle!”

Feagh groaned inwardly. He found Jowan particularly obstreperous; not only did he refuse to be manipulated into doing what Feagh wanted, but he seemed to think the attempts to get him do so were meant as an offer of friendship. Not to mention Feagh considered his voice among his list of_ top ten most aggravating things. _ Of course, Kass found all this terribly funny, which only served to cause Feagh more disdain for the man.

He almost argued, said that he wasn’t tearing up the room because he was worried, but he knew Jowan would never accept that as truth. Instead he snapped, “I _ dislike _ waiting, Jowan.”

“I know,” He chirped and plopped himself down at Feagh’s side, “I figured I might offer you my conversation as a distraction, considering Vasilios elected not to.”

“Oh, the horror,” Feagh droned, deadpan, “I’ll never live through such an ordeal.”

Jowan laughed at that, as if it had never been designed to hurt him. That’s how it always was with him; Feagh would throw barbs, and they would fly right over Jowan’s head, utterly pointless. Neither brought up Vasilios’s name again; he and Feagh may have been lovers, but he was certainly not _ in love _with Feagh. Feagh has no illusions regarding Lios’s feeling, but he didn’t particularly wish to discuss them, especially not with the likes of Jowan. 

Saved by the bell it would seem, as Kass was carted through the door and off to his bunk to rest, unconscious but unharmed. The Templar accompanying the mages toting him turned to Feagh. “Your turn, knife-ear.”

Feagh rolled his eyes and stood. “Very well, though I suggest that you find a better insult; that one’s so commonplace it barely holds any meaning.”

The Templar said nothing, just escorted Feagh to the Harrowing Chamber where Greagoir and Irving stood, along with a younger Templar—Cullen, if Feagh remembered from the few scant conversations they’d shared in passing. The room was large and circular, like most in the tower. Made of cold stone and filled with people colder still. Feagh said nothing; he just stared at Greagoir with carefully concealed fury burning in his chest. He often wondered why Kass was the only one smart enough to know that look, which he never quite understood, because Kass was blinder than the blindest bat. 

“Are you ready, child?” Irving asked, drawing Feagh’s attention away from the object of his wrath.

He scowled at the name—another thing he hated in this wretched place. The way that, even at twenty-six, the First Enchanter always addressed him as such.

“Yes.” 

Irving handed over the chalice. _ And so it begins. _

* * *

The Fade was much as Feagh was accustomed to: vast and expansive, and either excessively bright or pointlessly dark, depending on where you were. He liked it there, despite the fact that it seemed to hate him as though a living thing with a mind all its own. 

“Hello, little mage,” A familiar voice purred beside him, “To what do I owe the pleasure; it isn’t time for little mages to be sleeping.”

Feagh smiled faintly, bordering on fond. “Indeed, Bavial, it is not, but I am pleased to see you as always. They’ve sent me for my harrowing.”

Bavial bristled in their usual manner, the wisps of inky smoke that comprised their form undulating rhythmically. Feagh had to restrain a chuckle. He had grown quite used to Bavial’s various inhuman expressions of emotion after meeting them nearly twenty years ago.

“As much as I would love to indulge in idle conversation,” Feagh remarked with a lopsided shrug, “I mustn’t linger, else they decide I’ve fallen prey to some demon or other and smite me.”

“Indeed,” Bavial snarled, their rage towards the Templars clear in the tremble of their voice, “I shall, of course, accompany you, though you hardly need the assistance. Lead on, little mage; the path you seek is ahead.”

The Fade held little that Feagh had not already seen, and he was accustomed to its various twists of logic. Thus the mouse was… unexpected, but not particularly shocking. Feagh had seen far stranger on other jaunts through the Fade in the past. It was stranger still when said mouse spoke to him, with intelligence at that, but Feagh dutifully kept his expression blank.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves,” The mouse bemoaned, “as fresh and unprepared as ever. It isn’t right that they do this thing, the Templars—not to you, me,_ anyone. _”

Feagh cocked an eyebrow and peered down at the creature. “Indeed not, but that won’t stop them from doing it; the world doesn’t run a should’s and should-not’s; it doesn’t run on niceties. I’m much more interested in why there’s a talking rat in the Fade.”

The mouse gave a bark of laughter that did not match its appearance. “You think you’re really here? In _ that body _ ? You look like that because you _ think _you do.” Feagh rolled his eyes, because even the thickest of apprentices knew that physical bodies didn’t travel to the Fade with your conscience. Regardless, the mouse kept on whining, “It’s always the same, but it’s not your fault. You’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?” Its form glowed and shifted, until a man in mage’s robes stood before him, arms spread wide. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me—well, Mouse.”

Feagh and Bavial shared a look without actually doing so. This felt… _ off. _More off than the dream realm usually felt. Feagh offered Mouse a pleasant smile while mentally running through a list of possible spirits and demons he might be, and what motive they might have for seeking him out. The thoughts failed him, and he resigned himself to stalling.

“Not your real name, I take it?” He offered.

Their conversation died off fairly quickly, and despite Feagh’s insistence that he didn’t need the aid, Mouse followed along anyway, adding in pointless commentary and complaining at any given opportunity. 

Mouse was, apart from being a decent shapeshifter, fairly useless—especially when paired with Feagh’s skill and Bavial’s ability to ward off wayward spirits. Still, Mouse unnerved Feagh more than he cared to admit. Even the spirit of Valor or the Demon of Sloth they encountered—and then subsequently persuaded to help—hadn’t given off such a suspicious air. It wasn’t until Feagh saw they spirit of rage that was supposedly his test that he figured it out. Mouse, or rather, Pride, was _ decidedly vexed _ when Feagh was not impressed by his spectacular transformation.

“You do not seem surprised, little mage,” Pride commented.

Feagh scrunched his nose and gestured vaguely in the direction of Bavial’s wisp of darkness. “Only _ they _get to call me that, and no, not surprised at all. I was suspicious from the start; I figured you out before the fight with that lesser rage demon.”

“You’re a clever sort,” Pride flattered, an obvious attempt to win Feagh’s favor by bolstering his ego, “You would do well with my power.”

Feagh rolled his eyes and looked to Bavial as if to say, ‘can you believe this guy’. “I can do quite well on my own; I don’t need the help of boastful, _ grasping _little demons to have power.”

Pride looked offended, but didn’t further try to persuade him. It disappeared and left Feagh wanting nothing more than a nap. He huffed a sigh from lungs that didn’t exist and willed himself free from the Fade. 

The Harrowing was certainly an ordeal, but Feagh couldn’t help but think it could have been much worse. He had Bavial there—helping without really helping—and he never would have given into the demands of the demon; he wasn’t a trusting enough person. Even a spirit in the image of his _ amore _ would not have swayed him. He knew Vasilios better than to think he’d offer Feagh anything more than he currently did. The only way it might have worked is if the demon had taken Kass’s form, but even then… Feagh knew his brother almost better than he knew himself. Of course that didn’t mean the whole thing wasn’t dreadfully tiring; Feagh collapsed almost immediately after reemerging in the Harrowing Chamber. Greagoir looked _ pointedly dissatisfied _ that he was still alive and not an abomination but said nothing. Irving gave him a soft smile, which he would have almost considered fatherly if he didn’t loathe the man. Cullen caught Feagh before he could make a rather undignified descent to the floor, and Irving called for a couple younger mages to help him back to his bunk. 

He gave a crooked, smug little smirk at Greagoir before letting the darkness envelop him. His dreams, for once, were not as painfully torturous as usual; he still dreamt of his sisters and his parents and their tiny little apartment above their tiny little shop in the alienage. He dreamt of the day he started helping to sell boots and gloves and handcrafted leather belts. It hurt deep in his bones, not like the usual drivel about never making it home to them that stung sharply in his chest and up his throat. In comparison, these dreams were positively clement, and he silently thanked whatever Fade Spirit had granted them to him. 

When he woke, he was on his side in his cot, with Kass at sitting before him, smiling mischievously down at him. That look could only mean one thing—trouble for someone else, and a great deal of fun for them. Feagh grinned at him.

“What, dear brother, have you contrived while I’ve been getting my much needed beauty rest?”

Kass laughed, oh-so-light. “That,_ dear brother _, would ruin the surprise.”

Feagh huffed but allowed himself to be dragged out of bed towards their guests quarters. Guests were a rare delicacy in the Circle. A Grey Warden? Even more so. After a brief discussion with the man, Feagh gave up on trying to taunt him; while it was certainly enjoyable, this Duncan fellow, whyever he’d come, was much too clever to be manipulated, and Feagh didn’t really want to end up on Irving or Greagoir’s bad list so soon after being harrowed. (Assuming he hadn’t been on it before, which unequivocally was quite untrue).

In the end, they’d left him to whatever work had brought him to the Circle, sharing words of farewell before slinking back into the dim hallway. Feagh would have been pleased enough to immediately start moving their things to the mage’s quarters, but Kass wanted to spend some time talking with everyone before they left—as if they wouldn’t be able to see them again later. Feagh didn’t like this new course of action but obligingly let Kass drag him along. Off they went, to Cullen, to the library, to the storeroom, to the _ Chantry _ of all places. Feagh sent Kass a particularly scalding glare at being hauled in there, but, _ obviously _, received nothing in return.

Feagh _ disliked _ the Chantry, because he was an Elf, because he was a mage, because it had never done anything for him except to aid in his imprisonment; he also didn’t happen to particularly _ believe _ in the Maker, let alone trust Him. Kass had always been a little more _ lenient. _He had friends in the Chantry; he had friends in nearly every part of the Circle, one of his many talents. So Feagh trailed silently after him, waiting with suspicious eyes as he spoke with the mages and Chantry sisters that loitered about the place.

Of course, not being with Kass meant that Jowan found reason enough to speak with Feagh. As usual, Feagh desperately tried to dissuade any notions of friendship or comradery, only for Jowan to persist. 

“They’re going to make me Tranquil!” He hissed urgently, grabbing Feagh’s biceps.

Feagh shrugged out of his grasp easily enough and leveled him with an impassive gaze. “And why would they do that? As much as I am disinclined to admit it, the Templars rarely do such things without valid reason, or, at the very least, arguably valid reason.”

Jowan looked appalled. “They think I’ve been practicing blood magic.”

Feagh looked at him, waiting for an extended explanation, but none came. He rolled his eyes and made a ‘go on’ motion with one hand. “And _ have _you, Jowan?”

Jowan opened and closed his mouth a couple times before bleating, “No!”

Feagh dragged a hand down his face; Jowan would drive him to an early grave, he was certain of it. He spared a glance at Kass across the room, chatting with a red-haired Chantry sister. “Fine, let us discuss this with Kass; he’ll be able to decide what action should be taken. Though I am certain this could all be remedied if you simply went to Irving.”

He swept off, Jowan rushing behind him. Kass whirled at the sound of their approach. 

“You don’t understand!” Jowan entreated, rather unflatteringly, “I can’t just go to the First Enchanter; we have to escape.”

Feagh bristled, making a choked noise in the back of his throat and gesturing distressingly at the Chantry girl. 

“We?” Kass asked calmly, ever the voice of pragmatism. 

Jowan stepped up to the girl’s side and pulled her close. “This is Lily. We’ve been seeing each other for some time now.”

Lily smiled sweetly at Feagh, as if that would abate any anxieties he held about the situation. “We have evidence that they intend to invoke the Rite of Tranquility. We want to stay together, but if the Order finds out we’ve been seeing each other—”

“Lily will be punished!” Jowan finished, voice bordering on panicked. 

Feagh turned to Kass, catching the faintest glimpse of the look on his face and knowing immediately that he intended to help. “No—Kass, no. We’ve just gotten through our Harrowings, we can't—I don’t believe I’m saying this—this isn’t the time to be getting in trouble.”

Kass whirled, arms crossed. “Oh? And what should we do?”

Feagh huffed. “I don’t know. Tell the Templars—tell _ Irving _. Kass, this isn’t our problem.” He lowered his voice for only Kass to hear. “Greagoir still hasn’t gotten over that time I called him a Shem; if we get caught—”

“We won’t,” Kass assured, “Promise.”

Jowan looked at Feagh pleadingly. “Please, Feagh, you can’t tell the Templars. You _ can’t. _”

Feagh scowled. “Fine. What do you need?”

Feagh would have been content to let Jowan deal with his own problems, empty threats about Templars aside. But no, he should have expected that Kass wouldn’t allow it—always too nice for his own good. And of course, he’d listened to Kass, because even though Kass was literally blind and occasionally a complete fool, he was Feagh’s brother in all but blood. That didn’t mean he had to like that Jowan had gotten them to do all the work for him. It wasn’t even that Feagh was opposed to working; he just hated caves, and he certainly hated giant spiders that lived in caves. And he was only traversing the storeroom caves because the other Senior Enchanter that could sign the release form for them had been too busy being a complete idiot to comply with Feagh’s tactful manipulation. Feagh really hoped that this stupid fire rod would work.

“So it was pointless,” Feagh growled, “Perfect. Wonderful.” Then with an exaggerated flourish, lightning sparking along his fingers. _ “Sublime.” _

“Don’t be rude,” Kass chided, always such a mother-hen for someone three years younger than Feagh himself, “There’s almost certainly some sort of back entrance.”

And _ of course _ Kass had been right, because Kass was _ always _ right, but _ of course _ they’d had to fight their way to said back entrance. All the while dragging Jowan and Lily along because they were all but useless; they hadn’t even thought to bring their own weapons, which irked Feagh to no end, but on the grand scale of things at that particular moment was naught but a _ minor inconvenience _. Feagh resorted to looting whatever weaponry he could find off of the corpses and out of the scant few chests, which Jowan didn’t understand, Lily found distasteful, and Kass laughed endlessly at. He gave Lily two shoddy daggers he found, and all but threw Jowan an old staff that looked about three spells from crumbling to dust. 

The room they entered before the phylactery chamber was paradise for Feagh, filled with various magical trinkets, most of which he either pocketed or donned on the spot. Hidden in some back corner, he found a beautiful staff, which he claimed for himself before Jowan could get his grubby little fingers on it. Kass didn’t partake in the pillaging of the room—apart from, if Feagh had seen right, grabbing a few dusty books Kass would certainly ask Feagh to read for him later.

“We should continue on,” Lily prompted, though Feagh was still perusing the shiny baubles.

Kass nodded. “Come now Feagh, you have enough jewelry as is; we need to get going.”

Feagh huffed but acquiesced without speaking to his reluctance. Kass was right in saying they couldn’t linger; who knew when their sudden disappearance might be noticed? Who knew when someone might find their poorly concealed breaking and entering in the repository?

The phylactery chamber was decidedly less pleasant. Cold and filled with vials of blood taken from every apprentice in the Circle. Feagh half wanted to shatter them all, free their owners of that burden. He also half wanted to leave and forget this reckless mission. Over both of those thoughts was the idea that they should have done this before his and Kass’s phylacteries had been taken away to Denerim. 

There was a certain finality in destroying the tiny bottle of Jowan’s blood, such a small thing—tiny really—and yet it once held such power over him. Gone. 

Emerging from the lower levels to find Irving and Greagoir was, unfortunately, not something Feagh had planned for. Which was _ regrettable _ considering Feagh rigorously planned for almost every outcome—which was precisely why he’d survived so long in the Circle despite his various behavioral qualms and escape attempts. Another thing he had not markedly prepared for was Jowan turning out to actually be a blood mage, to have _ lied _to him. It hurt more than he cared to admit, considering how much he disliked the man. If he turned just so, he could see the look of utter horror on Kass’s face give way to something entirely different; he watched as his brother’s expression melted into suffering and then break in sheer rage. Just for that, Feagh wanted to kill Jowan himself. He wouldn’t bother listening to Irving and Greagoir, or even Lily and Jowan for that matter. 

At the order to take Lily away—Aeonar was not kind to mages, and it would certainly not be kind to a disgraced Chantry sister either—Jowan had attacked. Feagh could vaguely feel the distinct presence of Kass’s barrier pulling tight to lessen the blow. Still, the force of the attack was unexpectedly powerful, and Irving and the Templar’s were flung to the ground. When Lily refused Jowan's proposal to run away with him, Feagh almost, _ almost, _felt bad; then he remembered that Jowan had just lied to them, tricked them, betrayed their trust and tried to attacking them. Feagh decided he did not feel bad for Jowan—that he never would, and that he wouldn’t foolishly trust people who considered him friends so recklessly again. Of course, he also suspected he wouldn’t be given the chance to remedy his mistakes; Greagoir would certainly have him killed, or invoke the Rite of Tranquility and Feagh would end himself instead. Before he could ponder on his bleak future any longer, Kass swept to Irving, and Greagoir and the fallen Templars, working a pinch of healing magic into any scrapes and bruises caused by Jowan’s attack. Which, of course, was utterly foolish in Feagh’s humble opinion—healing the man who would undoubtedly call for their death was almost never a wise choice. Regardless, Feagh sighed and followed Kass’s lead, focusing on healing Irving and making sure Lily was okay; as much as he disliked the Chantry, she hadn’t deserved to be lied to as such. 

Apparently, Feagh was just as much a complete fool as his brother, because now they were stuck in this mess, in the wake of Jowan’s escape. _ No, _ Feagh reminded himself, _ not escape. Betrayal—he betrayed you. He betrayed _ Kass. _ Good, sweet Kass, who only ever did what was best for everyone else. _ Greagoir was fuming, he knew that much, even though he’d never listened to a word that man had to say and never would. And he could read the expression on Irving’s face well enough. This was the last straw. The numerous futile escape attempts on his and Kass’s part had been tolerated only because of his skill and Kass’s family. But helping a blood mage, however unwittingly, was a completely different matter entirely. Feagh had a feeling he wouldn’t be keeping his newly found staff much longer.

“How bad is it?” Kass whispered beside him, not moving his mouth more than absolutely necessary. 

Feagh scowled at Irving and Greagoir arguing and replied just as quietly, “I don’t imagine we’ll be making it out of this unscathed.” He thought about throwing in a snide ‘_ I told you we never should have trusted Jowan. The only ones we’ve ever been able to trust are you and me’, _ but the guilty look in Kass’s dark eyes made him think better of it. He also thought, briefly, of Vasilios, who was almost certainly sitting in bed waiting for Feagh to slink by for a quick fuck. It pained him more than he found rightly comfortable—or rational for that matter. _ He doesn’t love you, _ his brain supplied helpfully to quell his ridiculous heart, _ He just likes that you’re a willing partner to warm his cot in this wretched place. He doesn’t love you. And he never will. _

“Quite on the contrary, young Surana.” Feagh’s eyes snapped to the Warden, piercing and full of all his normal ire. “I think I have a solution which will benefit all parties.”

Now, Feagh did not _ want _ to be a Grey Warden. He did not do well with the whole following orders bit that came with the territory. But Feagh also valued his life more than his comfort, a grisly habit he’d picked up from living in an alienage for thirteen years before being taken to the Circle. Of course, he wasn’t going to leave Kass either, and Kass had readily agreed with the proposal, not a single question uttered on their behalf. Feagh looked from Greagoir’s barely concealed smugness, to Irving’s not-at-all-concealed disappointment at losing his two best apprentices; he’d rather die than be imprisoned further or made Tranquil, but he didn’t particularly want to die. He glared Greagoir in the eye as he complied with Duncan’s request, because even if it meant joining some Maker-damned army, it also meant he’d never have to step foot in the Circle again—even if that meant never seeing Vasilios again. After all, there’d be no time for goodbyes this time. He turned to Kass with all the smugness of a cat when he convinced Irving they’d taken nothing from the repository, pushing all thoughts of his _ amore _ from his mind. _ No, _ he thought harshly, _ he is not your love. He is like the rest of them, complicit in their own imprisonment. _Feagh stomped all feelings he had ever held for Lios without guilt or remorse, and managed to convince himself that the act made him feel lighter. And he grinned his most wicked grin when he felt the fresh air hit his face.

On his first night outside the Circle in thirteen years, Feagh cursed Jowan’s name in every way he could possibly imagine for his betrayal. Then, however reluctantly, he thanked him once for inadvertently setting him and Kass free. It was the first time he’d properly seen the stars since he’d been taken; it had been night during many of his failed attempts at escape, but he hadn’t had time to appreciate the night sky in so long. He spent half his life in the tower, but he remembered, however faintly, a time before, when he and his parents and sisters would lay atop the roof of their tiny home in the alienage and name the constellations. If he tried, he could recall his parents smiling down at him; it was difficult, but he could picture Merlyn’s face before he’d left—just twelve years old—with her wild grin and hair identical to his own. Memories of the triplets were more elusive; they had only been eight when he’d last been in the alienage. He thought he remembered them having his father’s green eyes, his mother’s tanned skin and straight hair. He wondered, bitterly, if they even remembered him. And he vowed that he’d see them again, the first chance he got. 

Before he could think too long on the pain in his chest, Kass sidled up next to him. 

“Think too long on the bad, and it will be the only thing you have left of them,” Kass remarked, only half joking—always so wise, despite being even younger than Feagh—always such a soft smile when he gave the most difficult advice. “Perhaps instead you should remember what you can of them; it will certainly help more than this blind anger.”

Feagh snorted. Kass could certainly keep a level head when giving advice, but he was no stranger to ‘blind anger’—as he put it. “Sure thing. You just focus on getting some rest. We’ll be safe enough with this Duncan; I suspect he needs us as much as we need him at this point.”

Kass gave a small nod and slinked back to his own bedroll, closer to the warmth of the dying fire. Duncan had said that it wouldn’t do for any Darkspawn to kill them in their sleep because their position had been betrayed by the smoke and light. Feagh hadn’t minded much; he’d spent his life in the cold dark of the Circle, and before that in the cold dark of the alienage, and besides, his eyes were good enough in the dark that he didn’t need the fire to see. But Kass had always been frailer, thinner than the others, so he huddled close to the embers, despite the fact that he’d wake up covered in soot. 

Feagh looked up at the stars again. “Mother, Father, Merlyn Linnet Surana—twenty-five, Brann Aleria, Oriel Adler, and Jaelyn Amalda Surana—twenty-one… Feagh Kafka Surana—twenty-six.” He stood up and made his way over to Kass’s shivering form, hunkering down at his side.


	2. Arrival At Ostagar

The trek to Ostagar was unpleasant to say the least. It was long and tiring and Duncan, while nice, wasn’t exactly one for casual conversation. Even if he was, Feagh had never been particularly  _ fond  _ of most humans, and Kass had always hated smalltalk—too much eye contact that he couldn’t quite replicate, he’d once explained. 

Of course, meeting the King immediately after arriving wasn’t really on Feagh or Kass’s list of things to do. Neither of them had any outstanding love for the highborn of Thedas, and neither of them had any intention of acting like they did. 

When Cailan asked their names, Feagh had easily retorted, “Feagh Surana, and my brother Kass Amell, though I would hardly consider us friends just yet, your Majesty.”

Cailan hadn’t seemed to particularly mind, which Feagh thought was odd, but didn’t question. Though the King did seem oddly receptive to two mages joining them. Not that that stopped him or Kass from unleashing their enmity. 

“We’ll do our best, of course,” Kass said sweetly, “Though I must admit we’ve only just finished our Harrowings and have never been particularly keen on casting spells on command.”

Duncan, who probably thought Kass to be the tamer of the two, looked about ready to die, or strangle them, or perhaps strangle them and  _ then _ die. Feagh couldn’t quite tell based on his expression.

Regardless, Cailan had welcomed them graciously, either too naive to notice their hostility or unwilling to start a conflict so soon. “The Wardens will benefit greatly with you two in their ranks.”

Feagh grinned, all wicked teeth and curled lips. “You’re too kind, your Majesty; I’m sure in no time at all the novelty of fresh meat will wear off and I’ll simply be another knife-ear.”

Cailan frowned at that. “Perhaps there is something I might do to fix the ills you would face; maybe after the battle we can speak on it. For now though, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should return to my tent. Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.”

Duncan took the chance to cut in with news of Arl Eamon and his troops, all the while Feagh and Kass turned to one another, both with equally perplexed faces. No one in the history of Thedas had ever bothered to try and help them merely out of good will, and certainly no one of royal birth.

“Ha!” Cailan exclaimed, “Eamon just wants in on the glory. We’ve won three battles against these monsters and tomorrow should be no different.”

Kass furrowed his brow at the King, leaning against his staff like a frail old man. “You make it sound as though the Blight is almost over; I had no idea things had been going so well.”

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” Cailan said thoughtfully, “There are plenty of Darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an Archdemon.”

“Disappointed, your Majesty?” Duncan asked, tone serious as ever.

Cailan’s eyes lit up like an excited child’s. Feagh thought he looked rather like a puppy. “I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do.” His expression drooped, and he added disheartedly, “I must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens.”

He trotted off into the camp with his guards. Feagh watched him leave, quite confounded. Their behavior had earned them a stern look from Duncan once Cailan had left; Feagh helpfully translated to Kass without an ounce of regret. Duncan said nothing on it though, which Feagh was overwhelmingly pleased about. 

“What the King said is true. They’ve won several battles against the Darkspawn here,” He said instead.

Kass hummed contemplatively, remarking, “The King doesn’t seem to think this is a real Blight—or consider the Darkspawn a genuine threat… You, on the other hand, seem much more skeptical.”

Feagh snorted. “The King is overconfident in the abilities of himself and his army. I would personally leave it to the Wardens to decide what is and isn’t a true Blight.”

Duncan gestured for them to head into camp. “Despite the victories so far, the Darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us.” His tone dropped to a more grim level. “I know there is an Archdemon behind this. But I cannot ask the King to act solely on my feeling.”

“He seems to trust you and the other Wardens a great deal,” Kass noted, “What would you have him do?”

“Wait for reinforcements,” Duncan answered assuredly, “We sent a call out west to the Grey Wardens of Orlais, but it will be many days before they can join us. He will not wait; he believes our legend alone makes him invulnerable. Our numbers in Ferelden are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference.”

Feagh scoffed and snapped, “That is recklessly foolish. Nothing is entirely invulnerable, no matter what legends they have at their behest.”

Duncan looked, for a fleeting moment, as though he wished to agree. “To that end, we should proceed with the Joining ritual without delay.”

Feagh groaned, and Kass, only half-joking, commented, “A hot meal might be nice first, considering how long we’ve been travelling and that we’ve only just finished our Harrowings—which, as you might imagine, were quite  _ harrowing _ .”

Surprisingly enough, Duncan just chuckled and said, “I agree! We have until nightfall to begin the ritual… Every recruit must go through a secret ritual we call the Joining in order to become a Grey Warden. The ritual is brief, but some preparation is required. We must begin soon.”

“Right.” Feagh did not sound particularly thrilled, but he was also not exactly shocked. “What do you need us to do?”

Duncan smiled vaguely. “Feel free to explore the camp as you wish. All I ask is that you do not leave it for the time being. There is another Grey Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair. When you are ready, seek him out and tell him it’s time to summon the other recruits—Kass I would have you do this. Feagh, there is a group of mages in camp, see how you two might be of assistance before the battle tomorrow.” He stopped at the edge of the bridge. “Until then, I have business I must attend to. You may find me at the Grey Warden tent on the other side of this bridge, should you need to.”

Duncan headed off to his find his tent, leaving Feagh and Kass to their own devices. They crossed the bridge, Feagh marveling at the architecture of the ruins the whole way. At the end, a soldier greeted them kindly, a welcome change to what they’d been accustomed to in the Circle.

“This place hasn’t seen such a bustle in centuries, I’ll wager,” He remarked jovially, “Need a hand getting anywhere?”

“Yes actually,” Feagh began, “We need to speak with the other mages and then find a Grey Warden named Alistair.”

“Try heading north” The soldier said helpfully, pointing behind himself, “I think Alistair was sent with a message to the mages, so he should be near their camp.”

“Thank you,” Kass replied as though that tidbit had actually been helpful to him.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Is there anywhere to get supplies?” Feagh inquired, “and… do I hear dogs barking?”

The soldier chuckled. “The Quartermaster’s just a bit to the northwest. As for the dogs, well, this is Ferelden, isn’t it? The King has his kennels on the west side of camp. Stinks from all the hounds.” At the look of excitement on Kass’s face, he added grimly, “These aren’t cute puppies though—some of those dogs bite the Darkspawn and get too much of that blood in them… It’s like poison. Slow, painful death. Terrible.”

“Uh, I think we’ll be on our way, thanks for your help,” Feagh rushed out before dragging Kass into the camp.

And, soon as they’d cleared a crowd of soldiers, they swept off towards the distinct sound of barking Mabari, orders entirely forgotten for the time being. The kennel-master was remarkably nice, though understandably saddened by the failing health of the dogs. Soon enough, they’d muzzled a sick dog and received a new, and undoubtedly more important, quest to find a flower in some Maker-forsaken swampland. Feagh didn’t particularly mind swampland, and Kass liked animals too much to not accept. 

Of course, then they’d gotten off track yet again, speaking with the Ash Warriors, with the prisoner and guard, even with the passing soldiers and servants. They made a small detour to find the quartermaster, which lasted longer than anticipated, because Feagh nearly burnt him to a crisp for thinking he was a servant. In the end, they had sold the few things they managed to smuggle out of the Circle and didn’t need. They also had a rather  _ unfortunate  _ run in with a Chantry sister; Feagh had been officially labelled a heathen, and she would hear nothing from him without huffing and making some comment. Their wandering even took them far enough off course so they ran into the other recruits. Daveth seemed decent enough, in Feagh’s words, but both he and Kass disliked Jory almost immediately. Too much honor and not enough tact and flexibility—and a great deal of cowardice that Feagh found detestable. 

It wasn’t until they circled back to the mage encampment that Feagh stopped with an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose this is where we part ways for now; you have to find this Alistair Warden fellow, and I don’t think they’ll like the charm of my tendency to _bend_ _the rules_ as much here as they did back in the Circle, so I ought to offer the mages what aid I can.”

Kass laughed, a small sound coming from him, but no less bright. “No, I don’t think they will. I’ll be off then.” True to form, he added a facetious, “Afterall, who  _ knows  _ how long it might take a poor blind man like me to find this guy?”

“Try not to trip over anything along the way!” Feagh called after his retreating form, “Broken necks make for very unflattering corpses!”

All joking aside, it didn’t actually take Kass long at all to find Alistair, especially considering he was being… particularly noticeable. And, while Kass did find it extremely amusing to let the mage torment him, he supposed he didn’t really have the time to indulge in such fancies. Once he had placated the mage enough to send him on his merry way, he turned to where Alistair was standing; he couldn’t tell much from the vague impression his magic gave him of the man—strong and healthy, something strange and dark and notably  _ evil  _ stirring deep, but still overpoweringly  _ good.  _

“You must be Alistair,” He stated, all the while trying to pinpoint the man’s face.

“Yes, and you must be one of Duncan’s new recruits—from the Circle, right?”

Amell’s attention snapped immediately to the source of the noise, just a bit lower than he had been previously looking. He didn’t bother trying to make exact eye contact; that was much too difficult to be worth the effort in his good opinion. “Indeed, my brother, Feagh, and I… well, we’re here now. That’s what matters I suppose. Duncan asked that I find you before this Joining.”

He made a half turn on his heel, back towards the camp—always exact in his motions and memory and magic as to never get lost. As he started to depart, he could hear the loud thundering of Alistair hurrying to keep pace with him.

“You’re blind,” Alistair noted, sounding like a confused child.

Kass made a dry noise somewhere in his throat that  _ could  _ have been considered a laugh if he was being exceptionally lenient. “Quite entirely, yes. Your point in bringing it up being, what, exactly?” When he gained no response, he simply perpetuated, “I began losing my sight very young, and was completely without it by the time I turned four; while I’m certain it is a rather shocking discovery for you, I must insist that you ignore it—if only for your own sake. I am perfectly capable of handling myself.”

He ducked under an approaching branch and stormed forward with a vengeance. Behind him, Alistair halted, and he quirked a small smile at the idea that he’d so thoroughly confounded him with words alone. However, when Alistair did not move to resume walking, Kass sighed laboriously and turned. 

“Look at me Warden,” He said, hoping that the Warden was not, in fact, already doing so, “Let us start over, hmm? I’m here with my brother because it’s the right thing to do. And, as much as it would give me pleasure to ignore this whole lot and head off on my own, I am unfortunately indebted to Duncan and the Wardens and am to be one myself if I don’t manage to die some horrible death first. 

“As for my blindness, I have magic that allows me to sense people and objects if I care enough to focus on it. I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that I will never see again; I suggest you do the same. You don’t need to pity me, and I will admit that I should not have been so rude… My name if Kass, by the way… Come on, it wouldn’t do to keep Duncan waiting any longer than we already have.”

“Of course,” Alistair agreed, “My apologies for being so… insensitive? I do not doubt that you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself, nor that you and your brother will make excellent Wardens.” 

Kass nodded, and together they walked back to where Duncan was speaking with Feagh. It took a few minutes to explain that yes, Feagh was an Elf and Kass was human, and no, they were not related, but yes, they were still brothers. He took it better than Kass, or Feagh for that matter, had been anticipating.

“He’s decent enough.” Had been Feagh’s resounding judgement. 

Alistair looked about ready to protest that, but Duncan had promptly sent them off into the wilds with two other recruits, Jory and Daveth, to find some old Grey Warden treaties and Darkspawn blood.  _ And special flowers, _ Kass had added for only Feagh to hear.


	3. Into The Wilds

Alistair had a bad feeling about Daveth going through the Joining—not that he never had grim expectations concerning the Joining—and certainly not because he didn’t like him. But just because he looked like he’d never seen a proper meal in his life, or even a proper night’s rest for that matter. He didn’t know what to think about Jory; sure he was a knight and he could fight, but he also seemed to only really be doing this out of sheer honor and nothing else—not to mention his blatant cowardice. The two mages were, however, undoubtedly the strangest recruits Alistair had ever seen. Kass, while he might have appeared sickly and helpless upon first glance, had more bite and ire than most snakes. Not to mention his habit of whacking Jory and Daveth with his staff and blaming it on being a clumsy blind man, all for the aim of silencing them. Odd as it was, Alistair didn’t have any doubt in his mind that he—or Feagh, for that matter—would make it through the Joining. And Feagh was strange in an entirely different manner. He terrified Alistair, not that Alistair would ever admit it; he terrified just about everyone. He had the beginnings of a fractal scar snaking along the fingers of his left hand, disappearing under his robes and reappearing along his neck and the shaved side of his head. He cut a savage image in his dark robes of fur and feathers, and he wasn’t afraid to resort to weapons over magic if it meant ending a fight quicker; and yet he had a strange penchant for looting corpses and crooning over the shiny trinkets he found. Daveth had teasingly called him a magpie for it, much to Kass and Feagh’s amusement. The brothers worked seamlessly together against the wolves and the Darkspawn, with all the poise and grace of a practiced pair. 

Kass would throw up a barrier the moment danger presented itself—glyphs and ice to freeze the attackers on the spot. Feagh would unleash fire and lightning until whatever it was had been reduced to a singed heap on the forest floor. And it didn’t take them long at all to acclimate to fighting alongside the others. Kass extended his magic a little further, making the blows against Jory and Alistair less bracing. Feagh would stray from his brother’s side just a touch. Keeping in line with Daveth, a keen eye surveying the battle, herding the enemy where they wanted. Then the both of them would flit from person to person, working a pinch of healing magic into any hurts that ailed them. It worked well, and Alistair almost regretted that it would have to come to an end. 

What he found strangest of all was that Feagh and Kass immediately took charge of their little band, as if their leadership had never been in question—and apparently it wasn’t, because neither Jory nor Daveth questioned it. Alistair found that he himself was just as easily swept along into being a follower. He didn’t particularly  _ mind  _ per se; Feagh and Kass made astoundingly good leaders. They worked well together, inspired each other’s strengths and tempered their weaknesses. 

What he did regret was that under their aggregate rule, their whole party spent the better part of half an hour searching for a flower. Well, Jory, Daveth, Alistair, and Feagh searched for the flower. Kass just stood by and kept a proverbial eye out for danger.

“And why do we have to do all the hard work while you laze about like that?” Jory had demanded, gesturing vexedly at Kass’s casual lean against his staff.

Kass, in a distinctly Kass-esc manner, had given him a shit eating grin and waved a hand in front of his eyes. The action had elicited laughter from everyone but Jory, but it was astoundingly effective at killing the conversation. Shortly after, Daveth had found the flower in question, much to the joy of their impromptu leaders. Feagh had tucked it safely away in one of his many pockets and they had continued on their merry way—if one could  _ be  _ merry while trekking through the Korcari Wilds. 

“Why did we so desperately need to find that particular flower?” He’d asked Kass once they’d been walking again for several minutes and the trees had begun blurring together into uniform ominousness.

Kass tilted his head to one side, the same way he seemed to do when contemplating whether or not to answer one of Jory’s numerous questions. “The kennel master back at Ostagar,” He said finally, “He needs it to make medicine for the Mabari who’ve ingested too much Darkspawn blood.”

“Oh,” Alistair said intelligently, and the exchange had ended there.

Feagh did manage to sidetrack them when he found a mysterious pile of ashes. He circled it a few times, fidgeting with his fingers in thought. 

He hummed. “Anything Kass?”

Kass shrugged. “It’s magical. Summoning perhaps? Why not try it out—a spirit might be able to guide us.”

Jory tensed visibly. “And if it’s not a spirit?”

Daveth snorted, drawing his bow. “We kill it of course, clearly you haven’t been paying attention to our lovely impromptu leaders this whole hike.”

“I  _ was  _ paying attention,” Jory retorted petulantly. 

Feagh shushed them with the explanation of needing to concentrate, though Alistair guess it was mostly to cease their bickering. He cast some spell that Alistair didn’t quite comprehend, pouring magic into the ashes. From the pile sprang a quite displeased demon demanding to know who had summoned it. 

They leapt into action, though it was mostly unnecessary. Feagh dispatched the creature near singlehandedly. Then—after looting the rags left behind of course—he bid they continue on, coated in grime but grinning wickedly regardless. Alistair thought that he might grow to appreciate that wickedness and it’s usefulness one day, it they survived. 

What he regretted most of all, even more than wasting time looking for a flower—or, rather, thinking that the flower was a waste of time—was that he couldn’t tell them what the Joining entailed, what it would really mean for them, for their future (or lack thereof). And he especially regretted that they had run into a Chasind Witch of the Wilds or some such fiend while searching for the lost treaties.

Of course, Kass had sensed her approaching and expeditiously struck up a friendly chat, or at least, his version of a friendly chat. He and Feagh both seemed not to care that, whoever this woman was, she probably wanted to either hurt them or hinder their progress. Jory and Daveth drew closer, taking up a more defensible position, and remarked on the likelihood that she would try to eat them or turn them into toads. The silence brought upon them by the threat of Kass’s staff raised but an inch or two from the ground, ready to bludgeon them at a moment’s notice, was swift and sure.

Feagh stepped forward, in front of their little group, and Kass followed suit. He offered a half smile and a slight bow. “My name is Feagh Surana, and this is my brother Kass. By what name are you known?”

“ _ Manners.  _ Now that is a properly civil greeting, even here” She said, seemingly shocked, “ _ You  _ may call me Morrigan.”

Kass smiled sweetly at her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance; you’re the first welcome—dare I say  _ agreeable _ —company we have encountered since venturing into the Wilds.” He paused for but a moment, perhaps giving Feagh time to interject, before he continued, “Morrigan, we’re looking for a stash of Grey Warden documents that were supposed to be here. Do you know where we could find them now? I’m afraid they’re a bit of a necessity under our present circumstances.”

Alistair gaped at him. Of course she knew where the treaties were! She’d probably taken them herself, thinking she’d get good money if she sold them to a passing trader.

Of course he was silenced before he could protest by Morrigan’s explanation of her mother taking them, that they might be retrieved by  _ ‘brave Wardens like yourself’ _ , rather than stolen by looters. Feagh and Kass had readily thanked her and agreed to come to her home to recover the artifacts. 

“Do you honestly think this is the wisest course of action?” Alistair questioned, sincerely hoping Feagh had not heard. Despite his surprising prowess with healing magic, the Elf did have a tendency of electrocuting those who irked him.

Kass shrugged, but made to trail after Morrigan regardless. “Duncan said we need those documents, and I don’t think Morrigan or her mother would risk keeping them from us in the midst of a possible Blight, especially considering their home is currently at risk of the Darkspawn raids. Wouldn’t you agree?” Alistair sighed, and Kass added decidedly, “Feagh and I are going, heedless of what you may say; call it blind trust in another mage if you will, but it’s a necessary action. If you’re too apprehensive, then by all means remain here, even take Jory and Daveth if you must, but you aren’t going to dissuade us from this task.”

Alistair disliked leaving Feagh and Kass with Morrigan more than he disliked Morrigan, so he, reluctantly, went with them. Daveth seemed to be in the same boat, and Jory looked as if he’d only accompanied them out of fear of being left behind in the ruins.

Morrigan, as promised, took them to her mother, who—like Morrigan—seemed to adore Feagh and Kass. She was entirely unperturbed by Feagh calling her crazy and dangerous, as if the remark was pleasing in some way. Soon enough, they’d survived, what Alistair considered, a quite unpleasant conversation, and had retrieved the treaties. 

Before they could leave, Morrigan’s mother had grabbed Feagh and Kass by an arm each, and turned them to face her. “You are both more sensible than this lot, but not sensible as you’ll need to be.” She leveled her gaze on Kass, staring fixedly into Kass’s dark, doddery eyes. “For a blind man you see a great deal, more so than the rest of this flock; I would trust in your sight more than I would theirs.” Then she whirled on Feagh, who looked impassive as ever, her calculating scrutiny meeting his own. “And you are more capable than your ceaseless resentment will presently allow. Find peace in your current situation, by whatever means necessary, and lead.”

Feagh looked on the verge of defenestrating all the pomp and circumstance in favor of murder. Kass just looked as perplexed as Alistair felt. He gave her a shaky thank you and tugged Feagh away, hoping to quell his brother’s sudden urge to commit unspeakable acts of violence. 

With all the tasks they set out to complete, well, completed, Morrigan’s mother bid Morrigan lead them back to their camp at Ostagar. Or, at least, to the edges of the Wilds. Kass graciously accepted, and let her steer them on the right course. 

At the outskirts of the woods, Morrigan said a remarkably sincere farewell to Kass and Feagh, and—strangely enough—apologized for her mother’s thoughtless words. Feagh huffed out a reluctant acknowledgement and left off towards the encampment. Kass had, in turn, apologized for his brother’s behavior with a sheepish half-smile. He then reached out and touched Morrigan’s face—after a moment of searching. 

He gave her an obliging kiss on the cheek—short and apt. “Thank you for your help. You’ve been most amiable. Send your mother our regards; I’m sure the senior Wardens will be most thankful for your aid.”

Then he too had swept off with a faint valediction that was half-swallowed by the wind.


	4. All The King's Horses & All The King's Men

Alistair was right so rarely about all his ominous notions, that it was almost inconceivable when it came time for the Joining. Feagh, in his usual manner, had managed to slink off while Kass was speaking with Duncan; which Alistair had realized was little more than a distraction. He had made a triumphant return just before the ceremony, assuring Kass that the kennel master had received the flower and that the Mabari would be fine. Alistair took a tragically short-lived moment to appreciate the way that news made Kass’s lips turn up and eyes narrow with actual joy. Duncan hadn’t questioned Feagh’s absence, merely gave him a vaguely reprimanding glance before going on to explain the specifics of what the Joining entailed. 

When Duncan called him forth, Daveth had accepted the goblet without delay and drank. And then he’d died. Violently, wretchedly, choking on his few last breathes; that was how most recruits that died met their end, or so Duncan had once explained. Alistair hated being right. Jory, hadn’t seemed receptive to the idea of drinking Darkspawn blood before—now he was downright refusing. Feagh just looked regretfully at Daveth’s corpse, then to Kass as if seeking confirmation. 

“He’s dead,” Kass noted as if remarking on something as quotidian as the weather, “I suppose that’s the catch to this Grey Warden business, then. Not everyone survives submitting themselves to the Taint.”

Alistair briefly wondered if, with those magical senses of his, Kass had _ felt _ Daveth die. Clearly he could tell in some way; had he simply discerned the lack of his presence? The thump of his body limply crumpling to the stone? Or had he sensed as Daveth’s life flickered, lingering fleetingly before being smothered indefinitely? 

Jory backed up, drew his sword, denounced any chance that he’d cooperate in the ritual. Duncan, with sorrow in his eyes, turned his blade against the knight. Feagh didn’t bat an eye when Duncan killed Jory, when he too fell to the ground in a clatter of metal on stone, and Alistair contemplated whether or not that man was completely sane— if he ever had been to begin with. Clearly, he must not have been; either that or he was exceptionally intrepid. When Duncan turned to him and Kass, offering the goblet with bloodied hands, he simply took it without question. Without hesitation or dubiety. He merely accepted it with a small thanks, as if it were a gift instead of something that could very well end his life several decades too soon.

He turned to Kass, a glimmer of unidentifiable _ something _ in his eyes. “I am with you always, isa’ma’lin.” He drank deeply and guided the goblet into Kass’s waiting hands.

“Invariably, dear brother.” Alistair couldn’t see his face, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

He too drank, and for a moment, all was well. That is, until the pair of them both collapsed, screaming in pain, folding in on themselves until they fell into blissful unconsciousness and crumpled to the ground. Alistair knew better than to think that was any better; the nightmares would likely plague them endlessly until they finally woke. 

Part of Alistair wished that Daveth and Jory had lived instead; they would have been better at following orders, acceding to the chain of command. But he remembered that it had been Feagh and Kass that had gotten the treaties that they’d need, the flower that wasn’t even part of their required tasks but would, hopefully, spare loyal Mabari further pain. He sighed; it wasn’t his place to question why things happened, only how to continue on. 

* * *

Going into battle at Duncan’s side, that’s what Alistair had always imagined. Certainly not going to light a beacon far away from the actual fighting, all the while acting as glorified babysitter to two new Wardens—not that Kass and Feagh actually _ needed _a babysitter. 

“_ Stop. Whining _.” Feagh hissed viciously somewhere along the way to the bridge, “We don’t have time for this.”

Kass nodded his agreement, using his staff as a walking stick, occasionally stretching it out to test for obstructions in the path. The Joining had, apparently, tampered with his magical sense of things—that strange way he’d been able to avoid anything in his path. He was by no means helpless, but his view of the world wasn’t terribly _ clear _ at the moment, as he had himself described; Feagh was, understandably, quite displeased with the notion.

“Feagh’s right. We don’t have time to be second guessing our mission; as much as I enjoy bending, _ even breaking _ , the rules, this is no time to be flagrantly disobeying _ necessary orders. _” He sounded more worn and weary than Alistair had ever heard. “Lighting the beacon is imperative to the success of this battle. If we contravene the injunctions we have been given for the sake of personal glory, we will be damning the entire strategy!” He let out a disgruntled huff, leaning heavily on his staff. The gesture made him look years beyond his age. “I understand that this is not what you had been expecting or hoping for Alistair, but it is just as vital to Cailan’s success and the success of the army.”

Alistair, though he hated to, had to agree, because, as usual, Kass was right. Kass was right and sensible and ever the level-headed one, and Alistair was being selfish and infantile. So he conceded and followed after the mages as they tirelessly marched along. Unsurprisingly, Feagh, as in the Korcari Wilds, took the lead, Kass following close behind but more loath to take command with his tempered sight.

Alistair deemed the bridge a right mess. Chunks were missing from where the ballista shots had knocked the stone loose, falling into open air towards the fields far below. Feagh had to pull Kass aside at least once so he wouldn’t go tumbling through the gaps. Soldiers were stationed there, firing arrows and manning the catapults. Feagh turned over his shoulder to give Alistair some command, only to be knocked flat on his ass by an incoming ballista shot. Kass winced, and Feagh skidded several feet away with a groan. Then, as if he hadn’t nearly been flattened, he righted himself, quelled the flames on his robes, and continued down their path. 

Before Alistair could follow, Kass pulled him to a stop with naught but a hand on his arm. “Describe it to me.”

“What?”

“The battle, the fields, the bridge—describe them,” Kass clarified.

“Um,” Alistair said dumbly, “It’s raining.” Kass gave him a withering look, hair plastered to his forehead by water, and Alistair cleared his throat. “We can’t see much of the field, mostly just the torchlight and the shadow of the armies. The bridge is in ruins; the ballistas’ve done a number on it; there are so many gaps… what—what can you see?”

Kass chuckled humorlessly. “I assume you don’t mean that literally.” His face melted into a deep frown that creased his forehead. “I can sense the Darkspawn—I can sense the Taint in their blood the same way I can with the Wardens.”

Alistair nodded, but he couldn’t hide his disappointment at the uncommonly curt reply. Feagh called back to them to keep up, and Alistair gently guided Kass down the bridge towards the ruins.

Waiting for them outside the Tower was a band of Darkspawn, one of Cailan’s men, and one of the Tower guards. Feagh and Kass dispatched the Darkspawn with vigor before whirling on the soldiers. Feagh was crackling with excess magic, and Kass seemed to be glowing from some magical boost or buffer. At the news of Ishal being taken, Feagh bristled, hair standing visibly on end and sparks flying between his fingers; Alistair decided he looked like an angry bird ruffling its feathers in disdain. Kass, on the other hand, looked only profoundly resigned, already accepting his fate.

“Well then,” Feagh noted sharply, “I suppose it’s up to us, as per usual.”

Kass snorted. “We’ve been Wardens for less than twenty-four hours; I don’t know what _ usual _ you’re referring to brother.”

Sarcasm and barbs aside, they readily went to the Tower entrance. Alistair couldn’t tell if Feagh was pleased by the soldiers joining them or if he loathed their very existence. It was hard to tell with him, and the constant scowl brought on by the rain and battle made reading his emotions entirely impossible.

Alistair quickly decided that the Tower of Ishal was a complete disaster. Between the Darkspawn, Kass’s flighty senses, and their all but useless companions, nothing seemed to go their way. They had barely even stepped foot in the Tower, and Feagh already looked like he wanted to commit violent murder—not that that was far removed from his usual disposition; it was just a great deal more intense than usual, as if his glare alone would set the Darkspawn on fire.

“Come on,” He ordered, gently guiding Kass, “We should get going.”

He didn’t bother asking the names of the soldier and guard; none of them did. Regardless of his cold demeanor, they deferred to his judgement without question. Even when that meant entering the overrun tower without so much as an _ inkling _of a plan.

Seeing the inside of the tower almost made Alistair jealous of Kass’s blindness. The ruins outside were one thing—the fires another, but Alistair didn’t understand why the Darkspawn had thought it was necessary to leave the flesh and innards of their dismembered victims strewn about; Feagh had helpfully supplied that it was entirely possible that it was an intimidation tactic, or perhaps for sport and nothing more. When they turned to the Elf for orders though, he was making a sour face at the sight before them.

With a grumble, he announced, “We shouldn’t waste time—we clear the tower—we light the beacon. Stop only for what you need.”

Simple enough in theory, certainly not so in practice. Alistair wanted to believe it could be that easy, but he knew better. If the first room was anything to go off, the tower held more Darkspawn than they’d ever faced in the Wilds.

Kass, despite everything, seemed to be doing quite alright. Which Alistair was very much grateful for, considering they’d probably die without his barriers and healing spells. The only major hindrance was that Kass was only able to focus on either attack or defense, so they often lost his useful glyphs and fireballs. They managed.

Feagh, for all his talk of only stopping when absolutely necessary, found time enough to loot the whole tower as they went along. _ Magpie, _ Alistair thought with something horrifyingly akin to fondness, and he made a note to keep his valuables close should they survive. If they noticed, the nameless soldiers said nothing of the habit; it made Alistair desperately miss Daveth’s snickering remarks and Jory’s relentless inquiries, no matter how tiresome they’d been at the time. Kass skimmed over a few trinkets but found little he was interested in. They carried on, stepping over the dead with a lack of tact and care that made Alistair’s stomach turn.

Most of it passed by in a blur. Kill Darkspawn. Search for survivors—be disappointed but not surprised at finding none. Kill Darkspawn. Search for survivors. For a time whatever wretched hell this was fell into bland monotony. Alistair managed to find a place for himself in Kass and Feagh’s practiced strategy; the soldier and tower guard that had joined them managed not to get _ too _badly injured while being completely without use. Feagh seemed to build up electricity as they went, mounting with his rage, lightning crackling between his fingers and along his staff; he’d tied his hair into a tight bun to keep it out of his face and to stop it standing on end. It spooked their new companions, but Kass—if he noticed—said nothing.

Kass was quiet, more so than usual for him. The few words he said were more often than not offhand remarks to Feagh regarding the overpowering feeling of death and despair in the tower—the way he could feel the horde and the main battle even from so far away. Alistair wondered, briefly, if he could pick out Duncan and Cailan from the others. Perhaps he could—perhaps, had his senses not been altered by the Joining, he would have mentioned it. The thought went unsaid, and Kass remained stoic.

Alistair was wary when Feagh suggested—demanded really—that they release the imprisoned dogs. Whatever qualms he had with the idea were quickly silenced by Kass’s endorsement of the plan.

“They’ll help us,” He announced quite suddenly, “They just want to be free; they’re restless. Caged birds wishing only to feel the wind under their wings once more.”

Alistair couldn’t argue with that, so he rushed ahead, covered by Feagh’s lightning at his back and Kass’s barrier around him, and pulled the lever to open the cages without a second thought. And Kass had been right—of course. They fell back into predominantly silent tedium.

As they reached one of the upper floors—second to last, if the tower guard was to be believed—Feagh opened a door, greeted by a Darkspawn’s blade. He took a nasty slash to the chest, mostly blocked by Kass’s constant barrier. Unsatisfied, the creature struck him on the head with the hilt; the resulting crack of his skull made Alistair’s blood chill. Feagh crumpled with a stunted cry, staff rolling from his grasp. While Kass hovered over him protectively, the others dispatched the band of Darkspawn waiting in the room.

“Is he alright? Is he alive?” Alistair asked, kneeling at Kass’s side.

There was blood on Feagh’s lips and along his hairline, but Kass was determinedly working magic into his hurts, easing them to the best of his abilities.

“He will live,” Kass answered brusquely, “The blood in his mouth is due to chest trauma—nothing to be _ too _concerned with. And the crack to his skull is minor.”

Feagh came to a moment later, coughing up a little blood and pressing a hand to his chest. Kass helped him to his feet, and Alistair pressed his staff into his hand. He bid they continue on, lest they light the beacon too late. 

As they moved through the floor, Alistair wondered on why these Darkspawn had broken away from the main horde.

Feagh snorted gracelessly, though it morphed into a wrenching cough. “You could try telling them they’re in the wrong place.”

Alistair had deflected the remark with all due snark, and then they moved on, entirely forgetting the brief respite from the gruesome task they’d been set to.

By the time they reached the top floor, Alistair was ready to throw in the towel. The Darkspawn were one thing—clearing an entire tower full of them for the good of Ferelden, sure thing! Why not? Alistair was completely fine with that. But he was decidedly _ less _fine with going to the top floor of said tower, only to find on Ogre waiting for them.

“Well shit,” Feagh uttered breathlessly with a little cough.

Without waiting for the command to do so, the tower guard charged uselessly at the beast. He was promptly plucked from the ground, and thrown into the wall; the sound of his bones crunching, and his breath dying in his throat, halfway to a scream, made Alistair’s stomach flip like a fish on dry land. In the corner of his eye, he saw Kass pursing his lips in thinly veiled disgust and irritation. Feagh looked like he was debating between heaving a great sigh and lying down and crying. 

“Alistair,” he began ruthlessly, voice quick and quiet, “Draw its attention. Keep it occupied. Try not to die. You—soldier—keep your distance. Cover Alistair and keep your fire on its back and blindspots. Kass, you know what to do.”

They flew into action, like a mostly oiled machine. The soldier did his best, but his aim wasn’t perfect, and he did a shit job of staying at the Ogre’s back. Kass threw up a barrier around Alistair, keeping the Ogre’s blows to a minimum; he even cast a flew glyphs of paralysis and a fireball or two when he could manage it. Alistair tried his damnedest to strike and leap out of range, but the Ogre’s reach was too great more often than not. Feagh cast a barrage of spells, lightning, fire, ice, some sort of hex, draining his mana faster than it could replenish. He downed a lyrium potion, hands shaking, face pale and sweaty; he wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Just when Alistair thought they’d felled the beast, it whirled, pounding the soldier into the ground. Feagh stood stiff as a board, and Kass’s face had gone very pale. Shockingly enough, it was Kass who dealt the final blow. A swift frost creeping along the Ogre’s legs, freezing it in place, followed by a gargantuan fireball to its ugly face. 

Feagh, after ensuring Kass was well, went about looting the creature and their fallen comrades. Alistair was too busy gawking at his lack of respect to chide him; Kass didn’t seem to care. His pace was almost leisurely as he wandered over and lit the beacon. The silence in the wake of their melancholy success was stifling.

“Isa’ma’lin,” Kass said suddenly, sightless eyes whirling to the door, “More approach. We cannot hope to defeat them with our current numbers.

Feagh’s dark eyes blew wide and he swept in front of Kass, ready to protect him from the threat. Alistair drew his sword and held his shield aloft and took a ready position. But the veritable horde that stormed through the door would indeed be undefeatable. 

Kass tried to throw up a shield too late, and Feagh took two arrows to the shoulder and side. He fell to the ground with a strangled yelp, staff rolling from his grasp. In his distraction, Kass met the same fate as his brother.

“Kass!” Alistair cried, whirling to the fallen mage in concern. 

A Hurlock took the moment opportunity to bludgeon him with a swift blow to the head. Alistair’s vision blurred out of focus; he swayed on his feet, and darkness overtook him.


	5. Plots & Plans

When Feagh regained consciousness, he was piled in a much too small bed, with Kass at his side, both of them wearing absolutely nothing. He sat bolt upright at the notion of being on his back in unfamiliar surroundings. Surprisingly enough, his felt no pain; it seemed that whoever had taken them captive had also healed their ills. 

“Good morning,” A cool voice greeted.

Feagh glanced up to see the mage from the wilds, Morrigan, staring down at him. She looked him up and down unabashedly, as if he were some prey she had won.

“Where are my things?” He asked stiffly, “Where is Alistair? And what happened at the tower?”

Morrigan raised a brow at him. “So many questions—you’ve only just awakened… Your belongings are just there.” She gestured to a chest a few paces away, his and Kass’s clothes folded neatly atop it. “Your friend is outside; he is not taking the news well.”

“News?” Feagh prompted irritably.

“Yes,” Morrigan said simply, “The man who was meant to flank the Darkspawn quit the field. The King and his men were slaughtered.”

Feagh scowled. “And the Wardens by extension—shit!” He stood abruptly, ignoring the way his head swam and he swayed dangerously on his feet. “I trust Kass will be fine here, thank you, Morrigan.”

“Of course.” And she swept off to who knows where.

Feagh dressed quickly, with little regard to how ridiculous the misaligned feathers and tangled fur of his robes must have looked. He snatched up his staff and used it to help him hobble to the door. Outside, Alistair was speaking heatedly with Morrigan’s mother; he didn’t catch much, just the same thing Morrigan had told him: Cailan, and Duncan and all the other Wardens were dead, and Loghain had abandoned them. 

“Here’s your friend,” The haggard woman announced, looking all too pleased to shift the attention of Alistair frantic questioning.

Feagh was tempted to retort that _ no _ , Alistair was _ not _ his friend. They were colleagues, allies of happenstance, but they were certainly not _ friends _ . Feagh did not have _ friends _. He had Kass, and that’s all he needed. Jowan had considered him a friend, and he’d still betrayed him. 

“It’s good to see you’re not dead,” Feagh said instead, leaning heavily on his staff, “I take it you’ve heard the news.”

“You don’t seem at all perturbed that we’re the only Wardens left,” Alistair huffed irritatedly, emphasizing, “in the middle of a _ Blight _.”

“Well,” came Kass’s all too familiar chiding tone, “I guess we’ll just have to end it ourselves then.”

Alistair whirled, panic melting into relief, and he breathed a little sigh at knowing Kass was well. Morrigan’s mother, Flemeth, was shockingly helpful in their planning. Feagh almost felt bad for calling her crazy and dangerous upon their first meeting… _ almost. _ He did feel bad that Morrigan would be forced to join them, if only because he’d rather not tote along an unwilling companion. But Morrigan seemed to have already resigned herself to her fate. 

“We should head out sooner rather than later,” Feagh said, anxiously to leave despite the burden that now lay upon their shoulders, “There’s much work we have to do and not much time to do it.”

“Agreed,” Kass concurred, “Morrigan, will you lead us back to Ostagar? From there we can make our way to the nearest town to gather supplies and whatever aid we can.”

“Aid?” Morrigan asked skeptically, “Why not simply seek out this Loghain and end his treachery once and for all?”

Alistair balked. “We can’t just _ kill Loghain _. We have to end the Blight, and we can’t do that without the Treaties.”

Morrigan scowled at the notion. She looked ready to make another barbing retort, but Feagh silenced her with a stern glance.

“Alistair is right,” Kass said, tone level, “We’ll need aid from _ somewhere _ if we mean to save Ferelden from the Darkspawn… Which is our intent, if that wasn’t previously clear.”

The walk from the Wilds was tense. Feagh made a conscious decision to stand directly between Morrigan and Alistair, which was decidedly _ quite unpleasant _ for him, but at the very least acted as a barrier to minimize their arguments. Ostagar was in ruins, more so than it had been before—which Feagh considered a remarkable feat, though he didn’t mention it out of respect for Alistair’s blanched expression. Fortunately, Morrigan said nothing to exacerbate the situation. _ Unfortunately _, that meant no one was speaking to cut the oppressively tense silence; Kass walked a few paces behind, his head down, focusing on his remaining senses, and Feagh was too concerned with how much had suddenly fallen on his shoulders. It came as no surprise when they were attacked by Darkspawn, but it was unejoyable regardless.

The more surprising occurrence was the appearance of a stray Mabari, seemingly come to aid them in their fight. Once Feagh felled the final enemy, the dog trotted faithfully up to him and sat down, wagging his tail and barking happily. 

Feagh narrowed his eyes. “This is the dog from Ostagar that Kass and I helped. What is he doing here?”

Alistair grinned. “He must have known you were responsible for his recovery. Mabari imprint on people; he’s yours now.”

Kass smiled absently, leaning on his staff. “What’re you going to name him, brother? Carry on the family tradition?”

Feagh snorted. “Of course—his name will be Jay.”

Morrigan groaned as Feagh carried on down the road, Jay prancing along after him. “I take it this means we’ll be taking this mangy beast with us.”

Feagh didn’t answer, and Morrigan gave a terribly resigned sigh—as if traveling with a Mabari was the worst fate she could possibly imagine—but she said nothing else on the matter. 

According to Morrigan—and a very helpful, if a bit tattered, map Kass pulled from his pack—the closest town was Lothering. Feagh glared at the map, scowling at the distance as though he might shorten it with naught but the strength of his will. Finally, with a great huff at his inability to alter geography, he handed the map back to Kass to pack away again. 

“If we make good time, we could get there within a couple days I think,” He announced, “Let’s keep moving and make camp at nightfall; from there we can come up with a proper plan of action—for Lothering and whatever comes after.” He threw on a lopsided grin and added, “So long as we don’t die first of course.”

The others agreed, ignoring his jeer, though Kass and Morrigan looked less than pleased about the notion of a forced march. Without further delay, Feagh set right off again; Kass and Jay fell in on either side of him, leaving Morrigan and Alistair to trail behind them, picking up their bickering on occasion—to pass the time more than anything else it would seem. 

By the time Feagh called them to a halt the whole lot of them were sweaty and tired and disgruntled from a day in the sun. Regardless, getting camp set up took less time than Feagh had expected. Morrigan set up her own things, enough removed from the main camp to allow privacy without being entirely out of sight. Alistair set up his tent a reasonable distance from the soon-to-be fire, and Feagh and Kass set up their tent as close as could be without running the risk of it catching fire. Jay helpfully plodded about, retrieving sticks and some of the smaller fallen branches, depositing them at Feagh’s feet to add to the pit. With a pinch of magic from Kass, they had a decently sized fire. Exhausted and tired of each others’ company, they gathered around to examine the map and treaties by the firelight. 

“So,” Kass began jovially, rubbing his hands together deviously, “who can we unwillingly conscript to join our cause?”

Feagh snorted, sparing a glance at the documents. “The Dwarves of Orzammar, the Dalish Elves…” He frowned minutely, enough to show his displeasure without it seeping into his voice. “... and the Mages of Kinloch.”

Kass’s face scrunched into an expression that mirrored Feagh’s own. “That is… unfortunate…” 

Feagh scoffed, and Alistair was sure that had they not been so close to the fire, he would have thrown down the papers in indignation. “Unfortunate is an understatement, Kass. Unfortunate is best-case scenario material.” 

“I do not understand your apprehension,” Morrigan remarked coolly, a furrow creasing her brow, “Mages are a great asset despite people’s views about us.”

Feagh looked up at the sky pleadingly, as if asking the Maker why He would design such circumstances. All the while Kass looked at Morrigan as if she’s said Mabari could fly, and the Archdemon has invited them to tea. 

“I have to agree with Morrigan,” Alistair notes reluctantly, “I thought you two of all people would be all for Mage rights.”

Feagh scowled at him. “Of course we are, but that doesn’t mean I want to go back to the Circle. And this isn’t a matter of Mage rights; this is a matter of not wanting to be killed on the spot.”

Kass chuckled mirthlessly in agreement. “They don’t exactly _ like _us you see, especially the Knight Commander.”

Alistair looked between them in a sort of perplexed interest. So rare was it that Kass dropped his usual lightheartedness that it made Alistair wonder what could have possibly happened at Kinloch. He desperately wished to ask, but the look on Feagh’s face—as if he might electrocute the next person to speak—made him rethink the notion.

Instead, he suggested, “Why don’t we focus on Lothering for now? We might be able to get some aid there, not to mention the Chanter’s board will likely be full of tasks we could do for coin.”

Feagh agreed, albeit somewhat tersely, though the look in his eye gave Alistair the notion that he had no clue what a chanter’s board was—or what purpose it would serve for that matter.

“It’s as good a plan as any,” Kass said with a crooked shrug, “We should get some rest; we’ve a long day of marching ahead of us.”

They dispersed, settling into their tents for the night only after determining a watch rotation. Feagh, with the look of a man who had never needed sleep more in his life, elected to take the first watch. It was rather unnerving; the only time Alistair had ever seen him sleep—or even close his eyes for more than an instant—had been back at Flemeth’s hut, when they’d been recovering from Ostagar. Kass didn’t mention anything though, so Alistair decided to follow his lead.

The next day was filled with much the same monotony as the one before it. Feagh led their merry little band, Kass and Jay at his side. Alistair and Morrigan trailed behind them, bickering over nothing of great importance. Once or twice, when he grew particularly vexed by their squabbling, Feagh would send a pinch of lightning at them. The way it seemed to snake through Alistair’s body, rattling his bones and making his teeth clench was quite effective at shutting him up; Morrigan didn’t appear nearly as bothered, but she took the message easily enough. 

By the time they reached Lothering it was midday on the third day of ruthless marching. Alistair, in his heavy plate, was ready to collapse and sleep, but Feagh urged them on anyway. Of course, perhaps that was, in part, due to his disgruntled ramblings of bandits and poor manners and bloodstains being difficult to wash out of his robes. The bandits on the highway hadn’t been _ difficult _to deal with, but they had certainly been vexing—as Kass had resolutely decided.

“I hate bandits,” Feagh said for the umpteenth time as he tried to slough away the drying blood that had been caked to his hands.

Kass rolled his eyes. “It’s your fault for stabbing the man; if you had just acting like a normal, _ sensible _ mage and stayed on the edges of the fight, you wouldn’t have been covered in blood.” 

Feagh huffed, but there was mirth in his voice as he spoke. “But Kass, if I stay on the edges of the fight I can’t see the horror on their faces when they see an Elven mage charging them, the blade end of my staff at the ready.” He mimicked a look of abject terror, forcing his eyes wide with his fingers. He gave a mock scream, and remarked, “Ah! The horror! An Elf that won’t make me a sandwich!”

Kass burst out laughing, doubling over and clutching his stomach. Even Alistair gave a little chuckle at their antics. Morrigan scoffed, though a hint of a smile twitched her lips. The remaining walk to the town’s limits was filled with dwindling laughter as Feagh continued to make faces and mimic people Alistair had never met—Kass cackled particularly hard at his impression of a man called Greagoir. They only sobered once they were within sight of the first residents.

“Come on,” Feagh ordered, the previous amusement still clinging to his words, “Let us find this chanter’s board you spoke of. In a town like this surely there is much that needs to be done.”

Kass frowned. “We’re still quite close to Ostagar; can we be certain the horde won’t pass this way?”

Morrigan looked ready to jovially remark on the likelihood that the entire town would perish gruesomely, but Feagh beat her to it. “No,” He drawled, some unreadable tone seeping through his words, darkening them, “The horde is going to just tear through this place eventually… We shouldn’t linger.” As quickly as it came, the odd lilt disappeared, and he gave Kass a reassuring smile—regardless of the fact that it went unseen. “We’ll do what we can, and we’ll tell them to evacuate, but that’s all we can do.”

Feagh approached the nearest citizen—likely some farmer or another. Before he could even get the words out, the man snapped, “Need something? I don’t generally talk to strange Elves who wander in here.”

Feagh looked ready to commit violent murder, risk of bloodstains entirely forgotten. “I didn’t ‘wander’ anywhere, thank you very much. I was going to ask if you needed aid, but clearly you’re above all that, so we’ll be on our way.”

He didn’t let the man say another word, retreating back to the area of tents on the outskirts of town. They were immediately accosted by no small number of refugees. Kass set about tending any wounded while Feagh asked carefully constructed questions to gain every possible _ scrap _of information. Meanwhile Morrigan stood around bemoaning how pointless it was to help such obviously weak people.

“There’s nothing else to be done brother,” Kass noted once he’d bandaged the last scrape, “We should head into town before too much longer.”

Feagh nodded, but as the others meant to leave, a little girl run up to tug on his robes. He looked down at her, the usual frigidity melting from his features. He knelt before her, and she placed a hastily crafted flower crown atop his head. She shoved a second into his hands.

“For your friend,” She explained quietly, pointing towards Kass.

Feagh smiled. “Thank you; it is a fine gift, my lady.” He rummaged in his pack, producing a few coins he could spare, placing them in her palm and curling her fingers over them. “Make sure your family heads north; don’t stay more than a day longer in this place. It’s not safe anymore.”

She nodded frantically, darting off to show a frazzled looking woman the money. She turned to him, relief and gratitude written across her features. Feagh gave her a respectful nod and turned to leave. Before anyone else could bombard him, he rejoined his companions.

“What is on your head?” Morrigan demanded, “You look ridiculous.”

Feagh smirked, plopping the second crown crookedly atop Kass’s head. “Jealous, Morrigan? I didn’t think you were the type.”

Morrigan huffed, crossing her arms. “Indeed I am not. We should move on. Let us hope you are taken seriously with that _ thing _on your head.”

Feagh just grinned, strutting assuredly into the run down village, ignoring the Templar’s words of warning entirely. Not even halfway to the Chantry, they encountered a scuffle between a Chantry sister and some merchant. Feagh sighed exasperatedly, doing that _ thing _ where he would look pleadingly to the sky as if asking, _ ‘why me?’ _He and Kass shared a look, which Alistair didn’t understand—nor did he understand how one could, in fact, share a look with a blind man, but he decided not to question it.

“Back off! I have the right to charge what I wish!”

“You profit from their misfortune!” The Chantry sister retorted, “I should have the Templars give away everything in your carts!”

Feagh looked between them, muttering, “Well, that seems excessive.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” The merchant took a step closer to her, vaguely threatening. “Any of you step too close to my goods, and I’ll—”

“It’s so nice to see everyone working together in a crisis,” Alistair remarked, “Warms the heart.”

The merchant turned, leveling his gaze on their band. “Ho! You there! You look able! Would you care to make a tiny profit helping a beleaguered businessman?”

Kass turned to Feagh, eyebrows raised, and mouthed the word _ ‘tiny’ _as if it had personally offended him in some way. 

“Is your profiteering ruffling some feathers?” Kass asked, only half joking.

The merchant didn’t seem even mildly shaken as he replied, “You could say that, yes.”

“Wow,” Feagh drawled, “and I thought the shopkeeps in Antiva City’s alienage were shameless.”

“The nerve of these people!” Alistair exclaimed.

“He is charging outlandish prices for things people desperately need!” the Chantry sister argued dramatically, “Their blood is filling his pockets!”

Feagh snorted derisively, “I don’t know—sounds like blood magic, maybe you should call the Templars to handle it.”

Kass stifled a chuckle behind his hand, though very poorly, but said nothing.

“‘Tis only survival of the fittest,” Morrigan noted casually, “All of these cretins would do the same in his shoes, given the chance.”

“I have limited supplies,” The merchant added, “The people decide what those supplies are worth to them.”

The Chantry sister gaped. “You bought most of your wares from these very people last week! Now they flee for their lives, and you want to talk business?”

Feagh looked—with mild disinterest—from one to the other as they went back and forth, as if watching a rather unsatisfying game of some sort.

“Look, stranger,” the merchant prompted, “I’ve a hundred silvers if you’ll drive this rabble off, starting with that priest. I’m an honest merchant, nothing more.”

Kass furrowed his brows, creasing them deeply. “You don’t think you’re being… oh, I don’t know… unscrupulous?”

“Would it help these folks if they could by no goods at all?” The merchant asked, eyeing Kass with distaste.

“They spend their very last coin because they are desperate,” the Chantry sister cut in pleadingly, “And this man preys upon them as surely as the bandits outside the city!”

“Bah!” the merchant huffed, “I’m not arguing anymore! Drive off this woman and get yer hundred silvers. Otherwise I’m taking my wagon and leaving!”

With a grin, Feagh cooed, “I think you can compromise and still make a profit, no?”

Had Alistair known Feagh better, he wouldn’t have been surprised; he would have expected that he would have some trick or another up his sleeve.

The merchant seemed to contemplate the notion. “Perhaps… if that woman allows I’m agreed to charge _ something. _”

“Do what you must,” the priest relented, “So long as the prices do not beggar the needy.”

“Fine, fine. Done,” the merchant said irritably, “And since you don’t look too needy, normal prices for you.”

Kass shrugged, entirely unbothered. Feagh looked like he wanted to punch the man but was restraining himself. He agreed cheerfully enough, though Alistair was beginning to recognize his sporadically flexing fingers as a way to ward off the desire to shock something.

“So,” Morrigan singsonged, “we have come to solve every squabble in the village, personally? My, but the Darkspawn will be impressed.”

They paid her no mind. Feagh sent the priest on her way, barely avoiding a blessing as she left. He then struck up a remarkably civil discussion with the merchant. Alistair, with nothing to sell or trade, was beginning to regret not picking up Feagh’s kleptomaniac habits. He and Morrigan were forced to wait patiently, trying not to throttle each other, as Feagh and Kass looked through the merchant’s wares and sold off their excess supplies. They bought surprisingly little, only the base necessities, while they sold off nearly all the armor, weaponry, and trinkets they had on hand.

“Why didn’t you keep all those things you collected?” Alistair asked once they set off again towards the Chantry, “I would’ve thought you’d have wanted to keep at least some of it.”

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps,” Feagh admitted, “I do enjoy jewelry and books, especially magical ones, or ones relating to magic. These however, are not normal circumstances, and I’m no fool to carry unnecessary weight across the country for the sake of vanity or research—there will be time enough for that when this is all done with.”

Kass nodded his agreement. “Feagh spent half his life in the alienage and the other half in the Circle; Kinloch was all I’d ever known until Duncan conscripted us. You learn to not wish for anything beyond what is needed in such places.”

Alistair nodded his agreement, and they continued on in silence—until finding the hysterical Chasind of course. Feagh dealt with that matter with all his usual tact and made his way to the Chanter’s board. While he seemed rather unimpressed by the notion, he and Kass agreed to do as many of the tasks as possible—much to Morrigan’s irritation.

As much as Alistair hated running from one end of town to another and back in full plate, it was rather entertaining to watch Feagh and Kass bustle about, completing task after menial task for the citizens as if their lives depended on it. They conducted themselves in this venture much as they did in battle; Feagh took the lead, that silver tongue of his able to accomplish nearly anything he wished, and Kass was always at the ready to offer aid and diffuse tension. It made Alistair wonder what they’d gotten up to in the Circle, but he kept that to himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that bit where Feagh mimics the bandit is inspired by The Umbrella Academy. It's on Netflix, and I highly recommend giving it a watch; it's based off a comic series of the same name, written by Gerard Way.


End file.
